


Melethron

by sar_kaz_m



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-25 00:56:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10753362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sar_kaz_m/pseuds/sar_kaz_m
Summary: A Man and an Elf must survive the last days of the War of the Ring.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1st Author's note: This is what keeps distracting me from updating "Son of the Champion".
> 
> Author’s Note: this fic has a strong assumption that the reader has at least seen the LOTR movies – it makes many references to places and events without explanation. There might be some allusion to content that is only in the LotR book appendices or the Silmarillion as well. Basically, if you’re not familiar with at least the basic timeline & plot of the Lord of the Rings, particularly the events from the end of The Two Towers through the end of Return of the King, you might get lost. Sorry about that.

“RUN!”

His eyes met those of his commander, and for one moment he hesitated.   But he knew he was the Ranger with the best chance of getting out alive.  Far into the North and well into the narrow strip of forest between the Dead Marshes to the west and the Ephel Dúath mountain range ringing Mordor to the east, the Ranger patrol fell afoul of a counter-patrol of orcs that vastly outnumbered them.   While all Rangers of Ithilien were well trained, none other in their unit had as much a talent for stealth as Phillipir.

Phil, as he thought of himself, caught the messenger pouch full of reports that his commander lobbed at him and fought his way to the edge of the skirmish.   He hated to leave his unit, his brothers in arms, with only the faint hope that the orcs might prove less fearsome in the end than they appeared.   Dispatching one orc, Phil edged around a tree and vanished into the underbrush.   He exhaled slowly and forcibly calmed both his breath and heart even as the battle raged nearby.    He twitched his hood over his head and drifted into a shadow and then behind another tree, ever so carefully moving away from the Orcs and Rangers locked in combat. 

He got nearly a dozen yards away when to his dismay a handful of late-come Orcs spotted him on their way to the skirmish.    Phil turned and ran.   He hoped to distance himself quickly enough to be passed over.

Unfortunately for him, the orcs gave chase.   He pushed himself as hard as he could in desperation but in the end a lucky shot from the orc archer brought him down with an arrow in the thigh.   He lurched to a tree, but before he could turn to defend himself, an orc caught up enough to stab him in the back.  Phil gasped as he collapsed against the tree as the pain lanced across his shoulder and stole the breath from his chest.  He spun just enough as he fell to look up at his killers.

He met their black and sneering gazes with quickly weakening defiance.   But then suddenly, one orc collapsed.  Then another fell.  When the third sprouted a purple-fletched arrow in the eye, the remaining two orcs finally turned to try and locate their surprise attacker, but to no avail.   They both went down from fatal arrows only a moment later.

Phil could feel himself dying.  He blinked as breath and energy faded away, still waiting for a final blow that did not come.   As his vision failed a figure appeared before him, a blurry and indistinct form in greens and greys; bright eyes met his as Phil sighed and let himself go.

 

* * *

 

 

Awareness returned slowly.   

At first, he simply knew himself - in pain and exhaustion with the lingering conviction that there’d been more pain in the recent past without coherence or consciousness.    Then he recognized sensations: a reasonably soft pallet beneath him, supportive enough that he didn’t feel discomfort from his position lying mostly on his front, only pain from specific regions in his leg and his back.   A gentle breeze, clean and cool, caressed his face.   A warm and silky cloak covered him, not heavy, with no barrier between his skin and it.

Sense of smell returned next, something green and sweet on the breeze mingled with the warmth and musk of another living being. 

Finally, Phil’s eyes opened mere slits, hesitant and blinking into evening light.    A shadowy form sat across from him cast in darkness by the angle of sunset, shifting slightly at some task.   When Phil inhaled swiftly in surprise the form jerked as if startled, but then moved closer.

Phil could just make out the green and grey before a pale face dipped close, casting a shadow over him.   The bright eyes that Phil recognized from when he lay dying met his again, this time in a pale face bearing an expression of guarded approval.

The other person spoke in a light raspy voice, words full of liquid syllables that Phil couldn’t understand.   He produced a damp rag, drawing the cool and soothing cloth across Phil’s brow first and then pulling back the cloak to address Phil’s back, removing a bandage and carefully bathing the wound.   Phil sighed as the washing seemed to help, cooling and easing the pain.   The treatment was repeated on the wound in Phil’s leg, and with the further easing of pain Phil drifted again into darkness.  But this time it was restorative, rather than blank and desolate.

 

* * *

 

 

The second time Phil roused to consciousness, he felt merely tired and sore, rather than pained and exhausted.   He lay on his side which was not natural for him, but the lingering ache in his back and thigh told him it was the best position.  

His companion, whom he vaguely remembered, again sat across from him.  This time, no direct light impeded his gaze, and Phil observed his rescuer with wonder.

The other person was clearly male.  The impressive breadth of chest and arms could be nothing else.  What captured Phil’s attention was highlighted by the dark golden mane of hair, cropped over the brow and pulled tight in the back beyond the delicately pointed ears.  

An Elf.

Many in Gondor studied the histories of the Elven race.  But Phillipir son of Coulesin had been more interested in Man, studying the languages and histories of the Rohirrim, the Haradrim, and the Easterlings.   He could speak their languages and read their words, for those who had written tongues, but he never bothered with the Elven languages.  Phil had always thought the age of the Elves was fading, and that of Man rising, and he never bothered with that which he expected to be irrelevant. 

But in this moment he felt his oversight keenly.   Obviously one of the elder race had intervened and used some ancient knowledge to save Phil’s unworthy life, and Phil couldn’t even begin to thank him appropriately.

He shifted in shame, and the soft sound drew the Elf’s attention.   For a third time, those bright and  
shining eyes met his.   The Elf moved to lift a small bowl, drawing a soaked cloth from it and wringing it until merely damp.   He moved closer slowly, raising the cloth to wipe gently across Phil’s brow again.

“I don’t..” Phil tried to speak, his throat dry and stuck.

The Elf returned the rag to the bowl, and setting both aside, brought instead a simple bark cup to Phil’s lips, a strong,  gentle hand cradling Phil’s head to assist his drinking.   Once his thirst was satisfied, Phil again raised his gaze to meet the Elf’s.  He’d heard that elves were lithe and graceful beings, beautiful to behold.  This Elf was not so.  He seemed powerful, yes, but in a fully physical way, not with the weight of timelessness as so many stories implied.  He looked more like a Man of Rohan than Phil’s expectations of the elder race. 

Dredging the little Elvish schooling he remembered, he said, “ _Hai.  Ni Phillipir_.”

The Elf cocked his head a little, before repeating, “ _Phillipir?_ ”

Phil nodded, then pointed his chin at the Elf.  _“Le?”_

The Elf blinked and grinned.   His face, which had previously seemed to Phil to be square and aged, an old warrior who’d seen many battles, suddenly transformed to appear youthful and merry.   _“Im Clint.”_

Phil frowned.  If that was a name, it seems surprisingly abrupt and harsh for an Elven word.  “Clint?” he repeated, lifting one weak hand to indicate the Elf.

The Elf nodded, hesitated, and then said “ _Nato.”_ Phil recognized this as an affirmative, but also realized that wasn’t the Elf’s first choice for affirmation. 

“ _Im Clint estar.  Ech Phillipir estathon.”_   The Elf stated this with the appropriate hand gestures, to show he understood their respective names.  The phrasing and accent of the Elvish seemed different to Phil, not like the formal Sindarin he’d heard spoken in school.   The elf scrunched his face then added “Not… Sindar…” with a gesture to himself, and Phil realized that the Elf was less practiced in Westron than he’d expected.  But if the Elf were not Sindar….

“Silvan?” Phil asked.  He recalled suddenly that there were several peoples of Elves, of which the Sindar and the Silvan were related but not closely.  If Phil’s distant recollection was correct, the Sindar were like the noble houses, and the Silvan were the common elves. 

The elf nodded, and then waved at Phil.

“Edain.  Of Gondor.” 

The Elf – Clint – nodded.   “Yes.”  He gestured outward.  “Orcs.  You… fall.”  His Westron was very rough.

“You saved me.” Phil said clearly and slowly.  “Thank you.  _Le fael_.”   To his everlasting surprise, Clint flushed.  Phil would not have thought that Elves could blush, but the proof was before him.   Perhaps Phil’s phrasing meant more than expected.

The Elf shifted, and offered Phil more water.   When Phil finished, he suggested “Food?” 

“No, thank you.”  Phil had no appetite, which was unsurprising due to his wounds.  Hunger would return when he was more healed.    He looked around a little.  They were in some sort of hut, built with and within the branches of a great tree.   The floor was solid, but the walls were woven, allowing light and the breeze to pass through them.   He could see a second pallet, made of soft pine branches, no doubt where Clint slept, and a small fire pot which kept a small pail of water steaming.   This was the source of the interesting scent Phil recognized from the last time he’d woken.  A second small pail was away from the fire, and the rag Clint had used to bathe Phil’s wounds hung on its edge.   Reminded of his hurts, Phil could not try to reach his back, but he did reach down to touch the bandage on his thigh.   This reminded him further of his unclothed state.  He looked around.  “My gear?”

“Oh.”  Clint startled, as if he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten.   He pointed beyond Phil.    “There.”  He stood and brought Phil’s belongings around so Phil could see them.   Weapons were clear to see – his sword and daggers cleaned, his bow properly unstrung, and it even looked like a few extra newly fletched arrows were in his quiver.   Phil sighed with relief to see the message satchel, its complicated knot untouched.  Although, an Elf could probably have deciphered the intricate knot Ithilien Rangers used, and retied it.   What surprised Phil were his clothes.   It appeared the Clint not only managed to undress him with minimal amount of damage to the garments, but he also cleaned and mended them. 

“How long have I been here?”  Phil asked.

“Three days.  Today four.   Can walk in two more.”  Clint frowned a little.  “No fight.  No bow, no sword… fortnight more.”    The arrow wound in Phil’s thigh must not have been bad if he could walk in less than a week, but the stab wound to his back should take far more than three weeks to heal.  But then, he shifted his shoulders a bit, and realized that even that wound felt far better than he would have expected.   His body was a map of years of service in Ithilien; he knew exactly how fast he healed.   “Is good you wake.  Was… worry?”

“You were worried?  Why?”

Clint gestured to the pot.  “Almost out.  Feared…” he searched for the words.  “Black Breath.”

“I don’t understand.”

Clint opened a soft suede pouch to show him a few green leaves.  The scent of them nearly overwhelmed Phil.   They smelled of all things good and growing, sweet and clean with the promise of spring and health.   “What is it?” Phil asked in wonder.

“ _Athelas,_ ” Clint replied.  “Healing plant.  But I not.. can’t.. Black Breath more…”  He seemed frustrated that he couldn’t explain it clearly.

“Whatever this Black Breath is, it is beyond your skill to heal?”

“Yes!”  Clint grinned.  He understood more Westron than he could speak, obviously.   “Try, though.” 

Phil blinked in surprise that the Elf would admit to even attempting to reach beyond his own skills to heal a Man he did not know.  To heal a Man at all.  Phil had always heard that Elves were aloof, preferring their own kind to all others, another reason why Phil never felt the need to study them. 

Carefully putting the _athelas_ away, Clint settled down next to Phil.   “It… speeds? Healing.  Flesh very fast.  Gives …. Heart, too.”

“Yes, I can feel that.”  Phil wondered at the remarkable properties of the elvish plant.  He knew nothing of apothecary, so didn’t know if the healers of Gondor knew of it.  But he’d been wounded many times before, and had recognized these wounds to be fatal, and yet here he lay having the most interesting conversation of his life.   He smiled up at Clint.

Clint actually blushed at Phil’s smile.   He was nothing like the tales of Elves Phil had heard, with their ancient memories and high history.   Clint seemed a fascinating mix of capable warrior and untried youth.   Phil couldn’t place his relative age.  Elves lived so much longer than Men, and while in one moment, Clint seemed hardened and rough, in the next moment he would smile, and the ages fell away from him until he seemed to be barely one and twenty.   He met none of Phil’s ideas of an Elf.  Even his name sounded nothing like an Elvish tongue.   But then, history is invariably written by the rulers, and Silvan elves were considered to be the least tribe of Elves in Arda. 

They studied each other in silence.   Eventually, Phil said, “You are the first Elf I have ever seen.”

“Oh.  I have…seen…Man.  Not …” he waved his hand between them. 

“Close?”

“Close.”  Clint waved to the north.  “Esgaroth.  Men there.  Seen.  Not speak.”

Phil knew of Esgaroth, said to be a far Northern outpost of Rhun.   “That’s very far from here!   Why are you so far from your home?”  

Clint froze and made a pained face.  He ducked his head.  “Sleep now.  Heal.”  He moved as far away from Phil as the hut allowed, clearly not wanting to speak about why he roamed so far from the trees of his homeland.   Phil felt terrible for asking.

 

* * *

 

 

For the next two days, Phil did little but sleep and heal.   He and Clint continued to have short conversations, about his gear, about the differences between their gear, about Clint’s skill at fletching, which Phil watched him do almost constantly.   The more they spoke, the more Westron came to Clint’s tongue.   For every word Phil gave him, five more seemed to appear in his mind, like he’d learned it long ago, and just needed reminding.   By the time Clint insisted Phil was healed enough to rise, he spoke in simple but complete sentences. 

“Tomorrow is a sevenday.  You will be fine to walk,” Clint insisted as he helped Phil to rise.  He’d been helping the Man with everything, even bodily functions, since Phil woke.   Today the goal was to get Phil stretched and dressed.

As a Ranger, Phil had long since lost all sense of shame about his own body.   The main outpost of Ithilien was composed of caves, where Rangers slept four to an alcove, and bathed as they could in the pool at the base of the rock formation.   But the first time he felt the call of nature, he’d been embarrassed to ask for help.   But Clint had only smiled. 

“Edain, Elven, same bits,” he announced cheerfully.  “Except…” he lightly ran a finger over Phil’s ear, which made Phil shiver in a way he didn’t examine too closely.  

Today, Clint eased Phil through a variety of stretches and poses.  His wounded thigh was stiff and sore, but not painful.   His back still bothered him more, but Clint very seriously helped him rotate his shoulder, watching the play of muscle and pull of stitching carefully.   By the end of the exercise Phil judged he could probably walk reasonably well for a decent distance, nothing close to his previous stamina, but it would return.  His shoulder and back would need longer.   The problem was that it meant Phil was without defenses for a fortnight more.   He mulled his situation over in his mind with increasing concern.   He could probably hike back to Henneth Annun, the Rangers’ outpost, though slowly over many days, but with the increase in Orc activity, should he fall afoul of a troupe he could neither run nor fight.   He grew quiet as he contemplated the problem. 

Clint noticed.   Clint noticed everything, Phil realized.  

“Quiet,” Clint commented, once Phil was stretched and dressed again with only minor mishaps.  He offered Phil a cup of water.  

“I am just considering the morrow.   I will head back to our outpost, south of here.”

Clint nodded.   “How long will it take to reach there?”

“Five days at least.  Perhaps six.  I will have to take lesser paths, to avoid Orcs.”

“Yes.  Smart.  Only two of us.”

Phil glanced up in shock.   “You are coming with me?”

Clint looked at him like he was a fool.  “You cannot fight.  Not for a fortnight more.   Who will watch out for you if not me?”

“I could not ask you to –“

The derisive noise Clint made interrupted him.   “No.  You would not ask.  You would think I would help and heal, then leave you to wander defenseless.  Think you so little of Elves?”

“I know nothing of Elves, so I have no idea what you would do.  I am sorry.”  Why Phil felt like he’d just been schooled, he didn’t know.   But Clint stared at him, looking into his eyes as if all of Phil’s secrets were laid bare.

“Alone too long,” Clint commented.  “You are not used to someone caring.”

Phil flinched.   “Not so.  I am a Ranger.  I have… had my unit.”

“No.  Not fellow warriors.  Friends.”

Phil could not stop the feeling of warmth that spread through him.  “We are friends?”

“Yes.”  

Phil couldn’t help the small smile that grew on his face at that, one Clint matched.   “Very well.  Tomorrow _we_ will head south to Henneth Annun.”


	2. Chapter 2

“How old are you?”  Clint asked.  “You have little beard, are you very young?”

Phil chuckled.   As they made their way south using the lesser trails, Clint would scout ahead first, moving far more swiftly and silently than Phil could at this point, and then return to walk and talk with Phil.   The Elf’s energy never flagged, and he became more gregarious the longer they walked.

At Clint’s question, Phil ran a hand over the sparse hair on his face.  He’d never been able to grow much of a beard, and this was the longest he’d gone without shaving.   Perhaps he ought to have shaved before they left the tree hut.    Clint had explained that he’d built it himself some time ago.  Evidently he’d dotted refuges everywhere he wandered, although he’d yet to tell Phil why he wandered.

“All men can grow beards, but many shave them off with a blade.”

Clint’s eyes widened.   Phil had noticed that although the Elf had claimed all their ‘bits’ were the same, the Elf had much less body hair than the Man.   The one time Phil had seen Clint stripped naked to bathe, he’d had to swallow hard and think of the worst duties.    Rather than lithe, the Elf was fit and strong, his shoulders and arms powerful, the muscles of his body clearly defined, but only the lightest colored downy hair grew at his armpits and groin.   Unlike Men, Clint’s chest was bare of hair.

Wrenching his thoughts back to Clint’s question, he answered, “I have five and thirty years.  I am an adult Man.”

“Five and thirty years.  So young.   An Elf of thirty years is not trusted out of the home alone.”  Clint’s smile went a little sly.   “I think maybe an Edain of thirty years should not be trusted either.  He messes with Orcs.”

The teasing had begun this morning.   Something about being on the move had brought out Clint’s playful side.  It didn’t diminish the obvious skill in woodcraft he had, but still emphasized that youthfulness Phil had seen.  

“And you?  How old are you?” Phil asked.

Clint paused to consider.   “I was born not long after the Last Alliance fell.”

Phil literally stopped to stare.   If that were the case, then his friend was nearly three thousand years old.  

Clint glanced back at him. “What?  I am not the youngest of my people, and far from oldest.” 

“You seem young to me.  And yet… you have seen ages.”

Clint shrugged and reached back to tug at Phil’s sleeve to get him moving again.   “Trees grow, seasons change.  I am not Noldor, I don’t carry the ages on my back.”  He seemed a little scornful on the word Noldor, as if he disliked their ways.  

“I’m sorry, I just… I cannot think of living so long.” 

Clint shrugged again.  “I do not think of living so long.  Just live.”

 

Later in the day, Clint asked, “Why are you not married if you are an adult?”

“How can you tell I’m not married?”  The question startled Phil.  He was not wed, but had no idea how Clint could tell.

“Your heart is still free.”   Clint eyed him consideringly.   “You do not take time to connect.”

Phil frowned.  “You see much.”

Clint sighed.  “Yes.”  He fell silent, obviously aware he’d touched a sore topic.

 

* * *

 

 

Clint urged Phil up the tree, carefully assisting him in the climb.   For the night, the Elf insisted they use an ancient oak as their campsite, rather than any hollow or thicket.   He justified it by claiming that Orcs never look up.

“They have walked beneath me a hundred times and never seen.”

Phil was too exhausted to argue.   They had not made the distance he’d hoped; even now they made their berth for the night far too early, but he couldn’t go on.   By some chance or skill, Clint guided them to a tree with a broad branching low enough to reach but high enough for safety, well covered in leaves.   After assisting Phil with settling for the night, Clint patted the tree affectionately. 

“This one is good.  It will shelter us well.”

Phil tilted up to look at him, still shining in the fading light, a faint smile as he lingered against the trunk.  “Do you talk to trees?”

“Sometimes.  They listen well.”

“Do they talk back to you?”

Clint chuckled.  “No.  They are not Ents.”

“Ent?  What is an Ent?” 

Clint explained of the wondrous ambulatory Tree People of earlier ages, going so far as telling a tale of himself as an elfling speaking to every tree, in hopes of finding an Ent, or even better, a lost Entwife.  Of course, he never found one, but evidently continued his affection for speaking to trees well into maturity.   One thing Phil did notice about Clint’s story – no family member seemed around to correct him or chastise him, or even care if the elfling wandered far and wide all alone.

In trade, Phil told Clint about growing up wandering the streets of Minas Tirith, the great city of Gondor.  He’d been born to a seamstress and her Guardsman husband.  But his father had been killed on rotation in Osgiliath when Phil was only ten, and his mother passed from a fever when he was one and twenty, at which time Phil had given up his studies and joined the Rangers.   He hoped these tidbits of his own family might encourage Clint to open up, but to no avail.   Clint seemed fascinated by his descriptions the city, asking more and more questions.   When Phil explained the height at which the city rose, Clint declared he must see it, must stand on the prow of the Citadel to look out.

“I would see the whole of Arda from there!”  he exclaimed as Phil laughed.  

Truly, Clint’s vision was amazing.  He could see the tiniest detail, spot the smallest movement.  He’d pointed out several small creatures as they’d walked, climbed a tree to pluck hidden fruit from high above, assuring Phil that they’d have no problem finding food on their journey.  When they’d started, Clint had insisted on sharing his morning way-bread with Phil, something he called _lembas_.  The taste had been remarkable, and either it was surprisingly filling, or Phil’s appetite had not yet returned, for even now hours later, Phil felt little hunger.  But when Clint pressed an apple into Phil’s hands, he ate, if only to reassure the Elf of his continued improving health.

The smile on Clint’s face was well worth the effort.

 

* * *

 

 

“So you do eat meat,” Phil observed as Clint efficiently gutted a hare. 

Clint snickered.  “Do your people still believe we live on moonbeams and starlight?”

“There are scholars that insist elves neither eat meat nor hunt.”

Clint shook his head.  “So the bow is only for war?  Foolish.  This is not a war bow.  A war bow is longer, heavier.  Arrows are longer too, meant to reach across miles of battlefield.” He eyed Phil.  “You know this is not a war bow,” he pointed out with a nod to his bow set nearby.   Phil’s own bow was a skirmisher, equally useful in battle as in hunting, though Phil’s skill would not have been equal to pinning their dinner as easily as Clint had.   Further, he had not tried to pull Clint’s bow but he could tell just by looking that it required far more strength than the average Ranger’s bow.

“I remember your skill in battle.  I do not think the bow is any issue.   I simply repeat what is discussed amongst scholars.”

“Your scholars should get outside more.”

Phil laughed. 

 

* * *

 

 

That night Clint created a fire so skillfully compact that barely any light shown from the blackening branches, yet the hare was well cooked.    Throughout the afternoon, Clint had plucked leaves and grasses that he stuffed into the carcass, and when cooked, the flavorful herbs had infused the meat.

Phil’s appetite roared back to life with a vengeance at first bite.   He eagerly consumed his portion, paired with water and apples.   Clint passed the last to him before preparing a small cup of _athelas_ -infused water. 

Finishing the last of the hare, Phil sighed happily and leaned back, licking grease from his fingers, only to meet Clint’s wide-eyed gaze.

“What?” Phil brushed a hand over his beard and checked his tunic.  “Have I made a barbarian of myself?”

Clint blinked once, then shook his head.  “No!  No, you… I am glad to see your appetite has returned.”

“Even a king would delight in such a meal, Clint.”    But at his words, Clint paled and hunched his shoulders defensively.

“It does no one any good to be before a king,” he muttered.

In a sudden stroke of insight, Phil realized his friend must be exiled.  So far from his home, so unwilling to discuss his past, and so uncomfortable with the idea of a king…. At least as far as any in Gondor knew, the only remaining true kingdom of elves was that of Mirkwood, where the Sindarin ElvenKing was still thought to rule as he had for an age.  Phil struggled to find something to say.  He didn’t care what offense might have caused the ElvenKing to exile his friend; Phillipir of Gondor owed that King his thanks, for the sentence that placed Clint in a position to save his life, and become his closest friend.   He would bet that life that the offense was not one of ill intent.   In fact, he suspected Clint had been as alone in his long life as Phil, so it was likely whatever misunderstanding brought Clint before the ElvenKing, there had been none to take his part against any accusations. 

The silence stretched between them, and Phil could see Clint’s head duck slightly, as if expecting condemnation.   Desperate, Phil blurted “Gondor has no king.”

After a heartbeat, the corner of Clint’s lips quirked slightly.   “I like Gondor more and more with every tale you tell.”   He raised his head to meet Phil’s eyes, and after a moment of luminous gaze, he relaxed into a genuine smile.  “Come, I must attend to your back.” He waved the rag at Phil, who obediently began to shed his tunic.

 

* * *

 

 

The fourth morning of their journey, Phil woke to such darkness, he though the hour must be before dawn, and wondered what had wakened him.  They’d again camped in a tree, Phil growing accustomed to branch and trunk for a bed.   He looked around for Clint.

The Elf had climbed high, much higher than he normally would, to stare eastward.  Phil carefully followed as best he could.  For all their similar builds, he’d noticed that the branches and limbs which would gladly bear Clint did little to support him. 

When he drew close enough, he spied the grim expression on Clint’s face.  “Clint?” he called softly.  “It is still before dawn.”

Clint shook his head.  “No.  Dawn has passed.”

“What?”  Phil scanned the sky with growing horror.  Dark and heavy clouds stretched from Mordor to the west, blocking the morning sun.   He began to notice a foul odor carried on the wind, a scent of distant death.

Even as they watched, a distant bolt of sickly green light rose from the Ephel Duath far to the southeast, a blighted reversal of lightening striking into the clouds, as if to pierce the sun they hid.  Clint shuddered as Phil gasped, shaken and horrified, “Minas Morgul?”

“The gates of Mordor are opened,” Clint groaned.  He dropped from his high vantage to stand next to Phil, pressing close.   Phil did not refuse the contact.  They’d grown close in their days of travel, closer than any Phil had known before save his mother, and the press did as much to reassure him as Clint.  They two, at least, could face the mounting darkness together.

They gathered their gear swiftly, sharing a square of _lembas_ between them.  Clint had explained the elvish bread gave strength and energy; this morning he pressed more than half onto Phil, the plea in his face clear.  Phil must find what stamina he could, so they could get to a place of safety as swiftly as possible.   The hordes of Mordor would be flooding through Ithilien, and though Phil rather assumed they’d be bound for Osgiliath – and hopefully no further – outlying patrols would likely fan across the land.

 

* * *

 

 

They encountered no patrols that day, and Phil judged if their luck held, they might reach Henneth Annun by nightfall the next day.   That night, they continued longer than they had on previous days, and when an arboreal refuge was selected, Clint urged him higher than before. 

“You do not fear heights?”  Clint asked worriedly.

“Few raised in Minas Tirith do, nor am I likely to turn about in my sleep,” Phil reassured him. 

“No, you sleep quiet and calm,” Clint agreed, “But I will stay near to you tonight, for safety.”

Once they were settled, Phil reached out and laid his hand over Clint’s.  “I am glad to have you closer,” he whispered.  His eyes met Clint’s and held until sleep drew him under.


End file.
